Second Chance (Chances Are #2)

Part 1:

Identity Crisis

Chapter 1

I take one last look in the mirror. For a moment I don’t recognize myself. Earlier that day I spent a hundred fifty bucks (with tip) at the beauty parlor for the stylist to give me a perm and dye it red. Neither was my idea; I let Maddy choose my new look for me. She had run a hand through my straight brown hair and said, It’s so boring like this. You need some flair.

I could have pointed out how straight and brown her hair had become in the last year, but she would have countered she was already taken. So I kept my mouth shut and let my daughter talk the stylist into the perm and red hair. Not a carrot-orange red or rusty chestnut red, but a deep burgundy, like a glass of red wine. When I asked Maddy why that color, she said, Red is so passionate and it goes really well with your natural skin tone. That was a nice way to say I’m as white as a ghost.

I touch the wavy red hair now and wonder if it really does give me some flair. It certainly is different. So are the clothes. I wear a short black jacket, short black skirt, white blouse, and tall black boots, all designer labels. Those weren’t Maddy’s idea. I bought them about a year ago with the credit card of a dead man. The outfit is gorgeous, fit for a movie star, a far cry from the faded T-shirts and torn jeans I usually wear.

I’ve done what I can with the makeup to cover up some of my natural skin tone. Although it’s been a year since an experimental drug known as FY-1978 changed me from crusty old Detective Steve Fischer into young Stacey Chance, I still can’t put on makeup. Tess has tried to teach me, but most days I don’t wear more than lipstick if I can help it. Tonight’s effort doesn’t look too bad. I’ve got a little pinkness to my cheeks and some definition to my eyes and lips. Maybe I’m not ready to pose in Playboy, but at least I don’t look like a kindergartner finger-painted all over my face.

Stacey, are you all right? Tess asks through the door. Do you need any help?

Tess doesn’t know anything about my real past. To her I’m an abused runaway who wants to get on her feet. I’ve become like a surrogate daughter to her, a replacement for her daughter Jenny who died of cancer four years ago. I don’t mind her mothering most of the time, especially on nights like this, where I need all the help I can get.

I open the door for her. Her face goes pale and she puts her hands to her mouth. Is it that bad? I ask.

No, dear. You look gorgeous, she says. Tears actually come to her eyes. You look so grown up now.

Thanks, I say. I am by all estimates nineteen years old, a grown-up in the eyes of the law. In the eyes of Tess is usually another matter. You think he’ll recognize me?

Of course he will. If he doesn’t he’s no kind of gentleman for you.

I smile a little at this. Sometimes Tess sounds like a character from a Tennessee Williams play, a faded Southern belle who entertains gentlemen callers. At those times it’s hard to believe Tess is two years younger than I would be if not for FY-1978.

Seth Barnes waits downstairs in the living room. He’s as shocked as Tess when he sees me. Stacey? he asks.

It’s still me, I say. I give my hair a little toss. You like it?

It’s great, he stammers.

Seth has cleaned up a little himself. He wears a white button-down shirt and dark blue pants, very different from the polo shirts and jeans he usually wears to Chemistry 102. That’s where we met, in the lab when the professor assigned us as partners. We kept our minds on our experiments throughout the class, so it came as a little bit of a surprise when he asked me out after our final exam. I had considered it myself, but it's a new experience for me to ask out a man.

Tess makes us wait so she can take a picture, as if I’m going to the prom. She hasn’t graduated into the digital age yet, so I’ll have to wait a few days to know how the pictures turn out. I probably have my eyes closed or I’ll just have that terrified look I usually have in photos of me as a woman.

Of course tonight I’m terrified for a good reason. I’ve never gone on a date with a man before. I think of it as "a date with another man" before I correct myself. I’m not a man, not anymore. Dr. Palmer did a whole bunch of tests to prove I’m completely female, except for my memories. I have gone on a couple of dates before with other women, most notably Maddy’s partner Grace. We even made love in Grace’s bedroom before I came to my senses and realized how wrong it was to steal my daughter’s lover. Since then Maddy has set me up a couple of times with girls she knows, but it hasn’t worked out. They were perfectly nice, but there was no chemistry between us.

None of them gave me the same nervous flutter in my stomach as when Seth and I worked together in the lab. I still remember when our hands touched for the first time as we reached for a beaker at the same time. We stammered apologies and laughed like idiots, which only proved he wanted me as much as I wanted him. Now’s our chance.

He takes me by the arm and leads me out to a Pontiac Grand Am. It’s old, but still in good shape. He tells me about how he’s tweaked the engine and suspension systems. I’m so nervous I don’t pay attention to the details. From the tremor in his voice, I figure he babbles out of nervousness. What a pair we are, scared as a couple of junior high kids on their first date.

We agreed through text messages to go to the latest superhero action movie at nine o’clock. That gives us a couple of hours for dinner. He pulls into the parking lot of an Applebees-type place I haven’t gone to before. As the hostess leads us to our table in the back, I can feel people stare at me. I force myself to walk with my back straight and proud, like a princess. A princess with her prince.

Seth grabs his menu and uses it to shield his face. You want an appetizer or anything?

If you want one, I say. I’m not really hungry at the moment. I don’t know if an appetizer or anything else will stay down.

I order an iced tea to drink and wish I could make it a Long Island iced tea. There are plenty of places in the city that will serve a nineteen-year-old without question, but those are harder to find out here in the suburbs. A chain restaurant like this certainly won’t serve a minor and God knows I don’t look a day over eighteen even with the makeup, hair, and clothes.

While we wait for the waitress to come back with our drinks, we say nothing; we just stare at our menus. Another time I might order a steak, but tonight my lack of appetite and girlish modesty prompt me to look at the salads instead. We could split something if you want, I suggest.

We don’t have to. I have plenty of money.

I didn’t mean that. I just thought if you’re not hungry—

Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—

It’s my fault, I say. I lower my menu so he can see my eyes and cheeks that are probably redder than my dyed hair. I don’t mean you’re poor or anything. It’s just that I’m not very hungry right now. I’m a little nervous, you know?

His face goes red too. He smiles at me. I know. I’m really glad you said yes.

I kept hoping you would ask me.

You did?

Yes. Seth looks surprised at this, probably because he’s not exactly GQ material. He’s gawky, about six inches taller than me, with some leftover teenage acne on his cheeks. His black hair sticks up no matter how much goo he puts in it. Then are the ever-present glasses with black plastic frames that make him look like a control room extra in a movie on the moon landing. In short, Seth is a nerd. My nerd.

The waitress shows up and I decide to order a Cobb salad while Seth gets the chicken fingers. The waitress leaves again and we’re left with silence. Seth looks down at the table, unable to look me in the eye.

Are you taking any classes this summer? he asks.

No. I thought I’d take a couple of months off.

That’s a good idea.

What about you?

I’m taking a music appreciation class.

Sounds like fun.

Have to do something to complete my art elective.

Yeah, I guess.

I got accepted to USC. My counselor says all of my credits should transfer.

USC? That’s so far away.

I know.

So this is a one-shot deal?

Well, no. We have the whole summer—

Then you’ll be gone.

Maybe you could transfer too in a year.

Yeah, right.

If you want.

Maybe.

I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked you out.

No, it’s all right. I’m glad you did.

But you’re not happy now.

Well, no, I say. I thought we’d have more time to get acquainted.

Yeah. He wipes his glasses with a napkin to buy some time. I don’t have to go to USC. I could go somewhere closer—

USC is a good school. I wouldn’t want to hold you back, I say with such iciness that he reels back like I’ve slapped him. I can’t believe after all this time he finally asks me out and then says we have no future. Not that I was about to get our wedding invitations printed, but I thought we might have a little more time to see if we really do have some chemistry. There’s not much point to it now.

We don’t say much until the waitress brings our entrees. Then we spend most of our time eating; we look down at our plates so we don’t have to look at each other. What a wonderful evening.

***

We still see the movie, mostly because I don’t want to explain to Tess why my date lasted only ninety minutes. Seth buys the popcorn and sodas, though I make him buy separate tubs of popcorn so I don’t have to share with him. Then my hand won’t touch his like in the lab.

In the second half of the movie, when the hero gets his suit and starts to bust criminals, Seth puts his hand on my thigh. I move a seat over. I cross my arms and try to focus on the movie, but I never liked comic books much as a kid. I preferred detective stories, the old hardboiled kind with guys in trench coats and fedoras. I used to own a trench coat, though by then only hipsters wore fedoras.

What am I doing here? I ask myself. Steve Fischer wouldn’t be here; he wouldn’t sulk because some broad will move away in a couple of months. At nineteen years old Steve would have welcomed that because it meant he could get laid without all the bullshit of a relationship. He wouldn’t have prepared for the date all day either; he would have just combed his hair, slapped on some aftershave, and then got dressed in a rumpled shirt and trousers.

Why do I care if Seth will leave in a couple of months? We’re just lab partners, not married. And I’m only nineteen years old, way too young to settle down. This isn’t Little House on the Prairie for Christ’s sake; most girls nowadays don’t get married until their late twenties or early thirties, if at all.

I slide back to the seat I vacated. I lean over to put my head on Seth’s shoulder. I’m sorry, I whisper.

For what?

For acting like such a bitch. I mean, we should just try to have fun, right? I put my hand in his hair as I say this.

Yeah, he says. He puts his arm around me to keep me close.

As the movie goes on, I let my hand wander down from his hair, along his chest, and then to his crotch. Right as the hero works up the courage to finally kiss his girl, I give Seth’s junk a little pat. Stacey? he whispers.

Don’t you like it?

Um—

Let’s forget the rest of the movie and go out to the car.

What? Why?

I start to knead the crotch of his pants as I say, Take a guess.

He bats my hand away like it’s a poisonous snake. What the hell is wrong with you? he says loud enough that some in the audience shout for him to shut up—some more vehemently than others.

I storm out of the theater; I knock over his popcorn and Coke in the process. He catches up to me in the lobby, where he tries to take my arm. Stace—

Shut up and take me home, I say.

In the car I again sit with my arms crossed. What’s your problem? I finally ask. You’re supposed to fool around during the movie.

Usually you stick to making out, he says. You’re not supposed to give me a hand job in public.

It was dark. Not like anyone was going to notice.

What happened to you? he asks. Why are you acting like this?

Like what?

So…aggressive.

Maybe I thought one of us should be.

If this is about dinner, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.

I don’t care about that anymore. I just want to enjoy the time we have. Even if that means they throw us out of a movie.

And right into jail for public indecency.

They’d give you a slap on the wrist, I say, the voice of experience. Especially when they see how hot your girlfriend is. You’d get a warning officially and unofficially a pat on the back.

That’s not funny.

I’m not joking. I know how things work. My uncle is a cop.

Even so, it’s not right.

Fine, be a pansy.

Stacey—

If you want to show me you’re a man, then take me to wherever the kids go to make out. Then you can make a woman out of me.

Jesus, Stacey.

So you’re not a man? You’re a sissy?

God, I wish I’d listened to everyone about you.

What the hell does that mean?

Everyone I asked about you said you were a dyke. I mean that girl you hang out with—

Maddy? What’s wrong with her?

Seth must sense he’s crossed a line, because his face starts to look scared instead of angry. Nothing. I’m just saying she’s a lesbian.

That means I’m one too?

Well you have been going out with girls.

Maybe I’m just experimenting. That’s what college girls do, isn’t it?

I don’t want to be an experiment.

Then what do you want? To be my boyfriend? You think I’ll be your little woman, sitting at home pining for you while you go to USC?

No—

Then what do you want from me?

I don’t know.

Then take me home.

I let him walk me up to the front door and then give me a kiss goodnight. It’s not because either of us want to so much as I know Tess is watching. Seth’s kiss is a dry one that lasts a few seconds. Goodnight, he says.

He doesn’t ask if I want to go out again. The answer to that is obvious.

Chapter 2

I tell Dr. Palmer about my date while I’m on the exam table. Unlike our first exam, I don’t lie with my feet in stirrups. I sit fully-clothed on the table in jeans and a tank top to make it easier for her to take my blood. Why did he tell me that? I ask. Why did he even bother asking me out if he was planning to leave in a couple of months?

I don’t know, Dr. Palmer says. She stabs the needle into my arm. I hardly notice, not after we’ve done this every three months for the last year. You know more about men than I do.

Yeah, I guess. I thought about it most of the night, after I gave Tess a much different report on what happened so she won’t worry about me. As far as Tess knows, Seth and I are an item, on our way to marriage.

When I was nineteen, all I thought about was getting laid, I say.

Men are supposed to be more sensitive than back in the ‘70s, Dr. Palmer says. But you did really like him, didn’t you? Before he told you about going to USC?

Yes. I mean, I wasn’t thinking about marrying him yet.

Then what were you thinking about?

I can only shrug. I think about it for a couple of minutes while Dr. Palmer puts the tube of blood into a container to be sent to the lab for analysis. I guess I thought we could be friends.

Friends with benefits?

What?

It means you’re friends, but you also fuck when you want.

Oh. No, not really. I thought it’d be more like when Debbie and I started going out.

So you did want to marry him?

No! I feel my face turn hot as I get flustered. I didn’t think about marrying Debbie right away. We went out for like six months before we started to get serious about it. Then it was a whole year before I got up the nerve to propose.

And his leaving ruined all that?

Well what’s the point? We could go out a few times and then he’d have to leave.

You could always talk on the phone. Chat on the Internet or whatever kids do today.

Maybe, but it wouldn’t work. I mean these long-distance things usually don’t.

Wasn’t he worth seeing if it would?

I don’t know. I sigh and shake my head. I’ve really made a mess of it, haven’t I?

Dr. Palmer puts a hand on my shoulder; she must sense I’m about to cry. Ten months ago I’d already have begun to sob like a little girl with a skinned knee. I’ve gotten a better handle on the female hormones since then. It’s all right, Stacey. You’re just confused. It happens a lot, especially when you’re young.

But I’m not young, not really.

You’ve only been a woman for a year. I’ve been at it over forty years and I still get confused.

Thanks for trying to cheer me up.

Well, let me ask you something: why did you try to touch him in the movie theater?

I don’t know. I was sitting there, pouting about him moving and then I got thinking.

What were you thinking?

I thought that’s what a girl would do, sit there and sulk. Steve Fischer wouldn’t have done that.

But you’re not Steve. Not anymore.

Dr. Palmer opens a drawer to take out her purse. She rummages through it for a minute. Tess would cluck her tongue at that; she makes sure I keep my purse nice and organized so I can find anything the moment I need it. The doctor finally takes out a business card. She passes it across the desk to me.

Dr. Robert Macintosh, I read from the card. You want me to see a shrink?

I think it would help. He’s a friend of mine. He mostly works with children, but he takes a few older cases too.

"Great, a child psychologist. That’s just what I need."

He’s very good. I think he could help you.

With what?

Dr. Palmer leans forward and clasps her hands together. Look, Stacey, I like talking to you. I care about you, a lot. You’re like my favorite niece.

You’d send your niece to a shrink?

If she were in your situation? Absolutely.

What am I supposed to tell him about my situation? I tell him what Artie Luther did to me and he’ll have me committed.

You don’t have to tell him that part. He gets kids like you all the time who are gender confused.

‘Gender confused?’ Is that what you think I am?

Yes.

I get up to leave, but Dr. Palmer is faster than me. She takes my arm and then looks into my eyes. Remember what you told me about your date? You couldn’t decide whether you were Stacey or Steve. You started out as Stacey and then you let Steve take over once your feelings were hurt.

I’m not schizophrenic.

I’m not saying you are. I’m just saying you haven’t decided who you are yet, whether you’re Stacey Chance or Steve Fischer. Dr. Macintosh can help you sort that out.

How? He can’t change me back.

You don’t necessarily need me to make a serum to change you back. Girls become boys all the time. It just takes a little surgery.

But I wouldn’t really be Steve. I’d just be Stacey with a fake dick.

Still, the option is there if you want it.

"Well I don’t. And I don’t want to be Stacey either. I want to be me again. Now I start to cry like I used to. I want Maddy to see me as her dad again, not some freak who got surgery. Don’t you get that?"

I do. Dr. Palmer wraps me in a hug. Look, just go to one session. That’s all I’m asking. If it doesn’t help then you don’t have to go back. OK?

I sniffle and as always feel like an idiot to sob like this. I guess.

She musses my expensively-coiffed hair. Good girl. You want me to call Tess?

No, I should get to work. Grace is expecting me.

OK. Before I leave, Dr. Palmer says, I like your new look, by the way.

I blush a little at the compliment. I run my fingers through my wavy hair. You think it gives me some flair?

I think you’ll have boys eating out of your hand. If that’s what you want.

Is it what I want? I think about that as I leave Dr. Palmer’s office.

Chapter 3

I’m the oldest patient in the waiting room. There are other adults, but they’re the mothers and fathers of the children here to see Dr. Macintosh. I sit on a plastic chair and read an article on Justin Bieber in Teen People while I will myself to stay in my seat.

In the opposite corner is a little girl, ten or so, who plays with her cell phone like most kids do these days. She wears a plaid skirt and white blouse, probably a school uniform. As if she senses my eyes on her, she looks up at me and smiles. I turn back to my magazine. When I glance over a few minutes later, she’s back to playing with her phone.

What the hell am I doing here? I’m not a little girl like the one in the corner. For that matter, why is she here? When I was ten, the most stress I had was to worry whether my dad would spank me if I didn’t do my chores, said a dirty word, or got into his stash of porno magazines I wasn’t supposed to know about. Of course nowadays everyone has to go see a shrink to have their heads examined. The little girl in the corner is probably hopped up on Prozac or Ritalin or something.

The receptionist calls my name and shows me into the doctor’s office. The moment I see the toys scattered on the floor and the wallpaper of puffy clouds against a blue background, I want to run again.

The doctor himself doesn’t fill me with confidence either. He doesn’t look much different than Seth, except he doesn’t have the acne and his dark hair lies neatly on his head, without the help of mousse or other goop. Like a stereotypical college professor he wears a tweed jacket with a white shirt—no tie. When he stands up to shake my hand, I notice he wears blue jeans. Typical yuppie, I think. I wonder how old he is. From the lack of wrinkles on his face, I bet not much over thirty. There’s no picture of a wife or girlfriend on his desk, just a picture of a boy about ten years old who looks like a miniature version of him, probably his son. So maybe not everything’s peachy keen in his world.

Welcome, Ms. Chance, he says. You come highly recommended from Clarita.

What’s she said about me?

Let’s talk about that. Have a seat.

Isn’t there a couch?

I can have one brought up if you want. Or we could try out those nice chairs facing the window. He motions to a pair of white fabric armchairs that face a window overlooking downtown. I walk over to the edge of the window and just about press my nose to the glass. If I squint I can see Lennox Pharmaceuticals’s lab where Dr. Palmer is probably laughing her ass off.

When I turn around, I see Dr. Macintosh in one of the white chairs, legs crossed so he can balance a pad of paper on his lap. You can stand if you want. Some patients prefer it.

I throw myself onto the empty chair and sprawl like a petulant child. Dr. Macintosh doesn’t seemed fazed by that; he probably has that happen a lot. So, Stacey, you wanted to know what Dr. Palmer said about you?

Are you going to ask why I want to know that?

My idea of psychology isn’t just to sit here asking you why all the time. It’s not asking about your parents either, unless you want to.

So what is your idea of therapy?

I want you to talk about what you want to talk about. He motions around the room, at the pile of toys, the stupid cloud wallpaper, and the window. I want you to feel like this is your sanctuary. You can be yourself here. No one’s going to judge you.

Except for you.

I’m not here to judge you. I’m here to help you. He looks down at his notes. Dr. Palmer says you’re bright, a little shy, and like a lot of girls your age, you’re confused. Would you say that’s accurate?

My teachers might argue about the bright part. I’ve managed a consistent ‘C’ average so far in college, except in Chemistry 102, where I had Seth to help me.

Well, maybe she doesn’t mean bright in terms of schoolwork. Maybe she means you’re street smart. Is that more accurate?

I guess.

You’ve spent a lot of time on the streets, haven’t you?

Did she tell you that?

A little bit. She says you come from an abusive home, that you ran away when you were still a child. How long ago was that?

I shrug. About three years.

And what did you do during those years?

I survived.

He nods and writes something down. I can understand if you’re not willing to talk about it yet. We’ll get back to it later.

If I decide to come back.

You think you won’t?

I don’t know.

Are you afraid of what you might find out about yourself in therapy?

What? I’m not afraid.

I’m just trying to understand you, Stacey. Just like I want you to understand yourself.

I do understand myself.

If that’s so, then why are you here?

Because Dr. Palmer made me.

"I’ve known Clarita since I was an intern. She’s a very smart lady. If she thinks you need my help, then I think you need my help. The only question is whether you think you need my help. Do you?"

I think about it for a minute and turn to look out the window. I think about what happened on my date. It’s obvious I’m a mess, but what good will it do to talk to this schmuck? I don’t know.

Let’s talk about it. Why did Dr. Palmer think you should see me?

Because I’m confused.

About what?

About who I am.

That’s not so unusual, not in a girl your age. When my sister was nineteen she went and joined the Peace Corps.

I turn back to the doctor. She wanted to save the rainforest or something?

That’s part of it, but she also wanted to learn what she was capable of.

And did she?

Somewhat. She met a very nice man in the Sudan. When she came back, she was big as a house.

She got fat?

Pregnant. She gave birth to my nephew a week after getting back. That’s his picture on my desk.

Oh. I thought—

Dr. Macintosh cuts me off with a laugh. I know. Family resemblance.

So you think I should join the Peace Corps and get pregnant?

Not unless you want to.

Then what should I do?

That’s up to you. Whatever will help give you some direction.

That’s not really helpful.

Maybe our sessions could help you find out what you need.

Maybe.

The doctor checks his watch. Our session is almost up for today. I want you to strongly consider coming back in a couple of days so we can continue.

I’ll think about it.

As I get up to leave, Dr. Macintosh says, Dr. Palmer was almost right about you.

Almost?

I think you are bright and you are confused.

You don’t think I’m shy?

No. I think you’re secretive. I think whatever you endured from your parents has made you turn inward, to keep people from learning too much about you. It’s something I see more often in my male patients. You know, most men think talking about themselves with a doctor makes them a sissy. What would you say to that?

I thought most of your patients were kids?

See what I mean? You answer my question with a sarcastic comment.

It wasn’t so sarcastic.

Dr. Macintosh gets up from his chair and then takes a few steps towards me. Stacey, if we’re going to help you, you need to stop being so defensive. Remember what I said at the start? This place can be your sanctuary. It’s where you can be yourself without fear of anyone laughing at you or hitting you. You’re safe here. I’m not here to hurt you or judge you. I’m here to help you get in touch with yourself, with the person you’ve been holding back, hiding deep inside all these years.

As he talks I back up until I’m against the door. It’s a good thing I’ve learned to contain my emotions or else I’d be a wreck right now. Not only the doctor’s words, but also his passion in them, make me want to believe him. Maybe Dr. Palmer was right about this whole therapy thing. Maybe he can help me.

"If you want to